


come at unawares

by starlightwalking



Series: Ataquenta Silmarillion [19]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Analingus, Armor Kink, Blow Jobs, Communication, Fealty Kink, Liege/Vassal - Freeform, M/M, Paranoia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Coital Cuddling, Reunion Sex, Soul Bond, Surprise Visits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27087070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Maedhros returns from the Gap to find something - or, perhaps, someone - waiting for him in his chambers.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: Ataquenta Silmarillion [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076816
Comments: 18
Kudos: 81





	come at unawares

**Author's Note:**

> I think I have a Russingon problem
> 
> Set early-ish in the 400 years of peace in Beleriand, after Fingon's victory against invading orcs in Hithlum but before his victory against Glaurung.

He knows something is up as soon as he arrives. The hostler won’t look him in the eye as he takes his steed from him, and none of the easy informality this particular servant is known for is present. Maedhros grips the hilt of his sword as he strides past the gates, already wary. Has the Enemy somehow infiltrated? What evil awaits him within the walls of his own fortress?

The soldiers who had accompanied him to the Gap are weary, and he dismisses them to find their families. He can trust only himself, after all, and not even that half the time. If something is amiss, it is his sole responsibility to take care of it.

His steward smirks as she sees him approach. Her reports are nothing but satisfactory and reveal nothing other than utter normality in his absence—but the amusement with which she raises her eyebrows at him only sets him further on edge.

Before he can wrest any answers from her, she is called away, and a cook intercepts him before he can speak to any guards. They press a roll into his hand and give him a half-bow.

“Surely my lord is tired?” they say, their voice light. “I will have your dinner sent to your quarters—any business can wait, do you not think?”

Suspicion grows ever darker in Maedhros’ mind. The hostler, his steward, this cook—they must be conspiring against him. Anger simmers beneath his skin; that they would betray him, that the Enemy would strike so near—!

If Himring is not safe, he ought to burn it to the ground and flee back to Maglor, not sulk in his quarters. And certainly he cannot eat the doubtless-poisoned food so “generously” offered to him.

But—he must be cautious. Surely not _all_ the residents of Himring have been mind-turned by Þauron; he cannot burn innocents alongside the guilty. No, he must step carefully, and not reveal his suspicions.

And yet the cook seems to perceive his hesitancy. They smile, and though he glowers down at them, their confidence is not quelled.

“News from the west awaits you, my lord,” they add.

The west! Has a letter from Fingon arrived—? But no, he must not be distracted. He must keep his wits about him.

“Thank you,” he said curtly, and leaves the cook, heading slowly up the stairs to his chambers. Perhaps it is there the assassins lurk, or the plot is to be revealed in full...

He stops outside his rooms, stepping lightly as he can. Slowly, Maedhros unsheathes his sword and listens for murmured voices, in Black Speech or the common tongue.

He hears no words, but someone breathes within. No servants are allowed in his quarters without his express permission, and certainly not in his absence. Yes, something is wrong; someone is inside. He only hopes it is not Þauron himself...

Maedhros braces himself. Well, waiting will not stop the inevitable outcome. If he is to die here, murdered in his own fortress, it will not be without a fight.

He throws the door open, brandishing his sword, preparing to assail whomever the intruder is who dares turn his people against him—only, the sight that awaits him is not some hideous creation of the Enemy, but a vision so lovely he half-believes it to be one of Þauron’s conjurations.

Except—except that his fëa burns suddenly bright and joyous, and the world around him is solid and real, and he believes, he _knows_ that this is no trick. For lying before him, sprawled naked across his bed, already prepared and open and offering himself up for the taking, waiting for _Maedhros_ , is—is—

“Goodness, Russandol,” drawls Findekáno Astaldo Nolofinwion, Crown Prince Fingon of Barad Eithel, and Maedhros’ beloved and duplicitous husband. “I admit that I came to this barren land with the intention of being pierced by your mighty sword, but I would much prefer that experience to be non-lethal.”

Maedhros drops his sword. The other sword Fingon spake of, however, rises instantly, and before he can think he is disrobing, his cloak falling to the floor beside his blade with his glove soon joining it.

“No, leave the armor on,” Fingon orders as he makes to unbuckle his breastplate, and Maedhros has never been one to disobey his prince. Instead he moves to shut the door, locking it for good measure, and as his husband beckons him forth he cannot help but tremble in his stride.

“Finno,” he breathes, and his husband smiles, his fëa reaching out to twine with Maedhros’. No, this is no illusion or deceit; this is real, this is _Fingon_ , and nothing compares to the union of their souls.

The union of their bodies, however, is a close second.

“Let me touch you, Russo,” Fingon says tenderly, reaching for him. He lies comfortably on his back, legs spread wide and inviting, the blue of his eyes glimmering darkly with desire. Maedhros all but collapses on top of him, letting Fingon pull him into a kiss, the red curtain of his hair falling about that grinning face.

Fingon tugs him closer, moaning softly as his leaking cock brushes against the cool metal of Maedhros’ breastplate. Maedhros smiles into their kiss, grinding purposefully against him, and Fingon lets out a cry of delight: this vulnerability, this overwhelming powerlessness is something he craves, something Maedhros is all too delighted to give him. And he delights in it, too, for he knows that it is _Fingon_ who is truly in control, that he is at Fingon’s mercy, that one word from Fingon could change everything and leave him breathless and begging beneath him.

“How long have you been here?” Maedhros demands between kisses, lifting his hips slightly so Fingon can shove his trousers down just enough to free his cock.

“I rode in last night,” Fingon says, fumbling with the last tie and reaching for his prize. Maedhros chokes as he wraps his hand around him, stroking him firmly, his palm still slick from the oil he had used to open himself up. “I swore your staff to secrecy; I wanted to surprise you.”

“I—” But Maedhros cannot chide him for the deception, not now, not as Fingon squirms beneath him and positions him just so. “Oh, Finno,” he groans, letting his husband guide him, sinking into the slick heat of him, pleasure sparking between them, hröa and fëa.

“Ai, _Russo_ ,” Fingon cries, wrapping his bare legs around Maedhros’ waist and devouring his lips in another kiss. “Oh, how I have missed you, my love...!”

Maedhros missed him too; his days were darker and his nights crueller without Fingon to keep him grounded. But none of that matters, not now, not with Finno _here_ so unexpectedly, clenching around him and drawing him further in, his mouth hot upon Maedhros’ neck. Maedhros has no words to express how glad he is to be with his husband once more— _within_ his husband once more—and instead he thrusts forward, angling for the spot that makes Finno keen so brokenly, his own ecstasy striking him like lightning with every movement.

He is hot and sweating in his armor, but the filthy sounds Fingon makes each time he presses down against his front are more than worth the inconvenience. Maedhros is suddenly overwhelmed with relief that all his suspicion had been for naught, that the thing waiting for him in his chambers had been his husband, and a sob rips through him. Fingon’s fëa blazes bright around his own, and wordlessly Maedhros shares with him all his vanquished fears. Fingon kisses him then, the taste of him sweeter than anything Maedhros can remember, and he bites ungently at his husband’s lip, wanting more, wanting everything.

He lifts Fingon up from the bed, pulling him close to his chest, and Fingon cries out as Maedhros readjusts him so that he is sitting astride his lap. Maedhros bows his head and sucks at Fingon’s neck, his hand wrapped in his husband’s braids and his stump pressing at Fingon’s back. Maedhros moves within him, his husband’s body so hot and perfect around him that he can hardly bear it, and he finds himself gasping and biting at Fingon’s bare flesh, his thoughts flying like dust on the wind.

Fingon arches his back, meeting his every thrust, and in his mind he whispers, _Oh Russo, my dearest, my love, my lord, my warrior,_ mine _—_

“Finno,” he moans: a warning; and then—

 _Yes, yes, come for me, my Russandol,_ his prince and husband orders, and Maedhros does, spilling deep inside him. Fingon whimpers, tightening around him, taking it all, whispering garbled pleas for _more, more_.

There is a fire behind Maedhros’ eyes, burning bright and hot and blinding, and Fingon’s kisses upon his brow are like a gentle rain that calms him, the flames shrinking until they feel more like a comforting hearth than a wildfire. He meets Fingon’s lips in a lazy kiss, sliding his tongue against his husband’s, and Fingon sighs as Maedhros slips out of him.

Fingon trembles in his arms, still hard and needy, and as Maedhros takes a moment to come back to himself he considers how best to serve his prince.

“Are you going to leave me like this?” Fingon rasps, rutting against his armor once more.

Maedhros smiles in what he hopes is a sly and seductive manner, though his ruined face has a way of turning everything into a grimace. Fingon rolls his eyes.

“I would never fail in my duties to my prince,” Maedhros says solemnly, and he lays Fingon back down on the bed, sliding down so that his face is level with his cock. But he does not take Fingon in his mouth right away, first sucking at his balls and then licking down to where his hole drips with Maedhros’ come.

“ _Russo,_ ” Fingon whines, hips jerking as he dips his tongue inside, tasting his own release and working it back into him.

 _Does your Highness want something?_ he asks innocently, dragging his tongue along Fingon’s walls, and his husband cries out and fucks down onto his face and curses his name.

Maedhros teases him for a moment longer, until Fingon snaps, “If you don’t get your tongue out of my ass right now and suck me off—”

He obeys the first half of Fingon’s threat, lifting his head and blinking up at him with false innocence. “Is than an order, my prince?”

“ _Fuck_ you, Russandol, I hate it when you get like this— _Yes_ , it’s an order, let me come already—”

Maedhros takes mercy on him at last, wrapping his lips around his husband’s cock and taking him down to the base. He hollows his cheeks and bobs his head once, twice, and then Fingon is pulsing into him, his seed shooting hot down Maedhros’ throat. He moans and takes it all, delighting in the way Fingon writhes and whispers praises to him in his mind even as he curses him with that strong, commanding voice.

He licks his lips as he rises, and Fingon’s eyes are glazed over with pleasure. He takes shallow breaths, slowly coming back to himself and watching as Maedhros at last frees himself of his armor. After the worst of it is gone Maedhros slows, giving his husband a show as he peels off his sweat-stained shirt to reveal a stomach hard with muscle and criss-crossed with scars. He doesn’t quite understand the way Fingon’s eyes light up at the sight of him—certainly he no longer believes he is fair as he once was—but he indulges Fingon and crawls back up the bed to let his husband run his hands across his chest, shivering at the touch.

Fingon takes him in his arms, and Maedhros rests his head on his stomach, more content now than he had been in all the long months since he had last visited Hithlum. Fingon plays absently with his hair, humming an old tune from Valinor, and Maedhros lets himself rest for a quiet moment.

But even with his husband holding him, his mind cannot be free of darkness forever. The real world begins to assert itself once more when his stomach growls, and he feels a pang of remorse for how harshly he treated the cook who had only tried to give him a small morsel before reuniting with his husband. He will be sure to apologize to them later.

“How long will you stay?” he murmurs into Fingon’s chest, and feels his head lift slightly as Fingon sighs.

“I don’t know,” Fingon replies. “How long until winter sets in?”

“Not long; two weeks, perhaps.”

Fingon kisses his brow. “Then my business here will take me three, and alas that the foul weather shall prevent my return home for the worst of the season...!”

Maedhros’ heart warms with happiness—this far north and east, the winters are long and harsh. He will have Fingon for months!

And yet...

“You needn’t shirk your duties for me,” he whispers. “Surely your family, your people...”

“My siblings are Eru-knows-where; my father hates wintering with me, he says I get ‘antsy,’ and he can care for those of my followers who did not accompany me here.” Fingon laughs quietly. “Oh, Russandol. What of my duties to my husband, hmm? Did you ever consider I _want_ to be here, with you?”

“I will put you to work,” Maedhros warns. “Do not fear for restlessness; the walls must be maintained, the guard is unceasing, the snow cannot keep us from training our bodies—”

“I crossed the Helcaraxë for you, arimelda,” Fingon reminds him. “I know how to labor in the cold. Of course I will work, for you and with you—and not only to keep your mind from straying to dark places.”

Maedhros kisses his neck, his gratitude and love flowing freely on their bond. They lie in silence for awhile, and Fingon’s breathing deepens. Maedhros might have let him drift into sleep, but for another nagging thought in the back of his mind.

“Finno?” he asks softly.

Fingon opens his eyes a crack. “Mm?”

“I...” How to say this? “I do not wish to sound...ungrateful. Your company is all I yearn for when you are gone, and this—this was truly a wonderful surprise, but...” He grimaces, sounding uncharitable even to himself.

“But...?” Fingon prompts.

“If you were ever to do this again—I would...” Maedhros groans. “Oh, nevermind.”

Fingon sits up, lifting Maedhros’ face to look him seriously in the eyes. “Darling, I assure you I will wish to surprise you again.”

Maedhros can’t meet his gaze, instead glancing down. How selfish is he, to complain about such a treasure as Fingon’s company?

“What is it?” Fingon demands, prodding him across their bond. “I do not wish to add to your discomforts, my love, but to ease them, if not erase them entirely. Tell me, please!”

Maedhros sighs. He had only spoken in the first place because he knows that somehow, Fingon cares for what he feels, and to keep this unease to himself would be cruel to them both. Himself he could torment, but Fingon—never.

“It is only,” he begins, “only that—you swore my people to secrecy, yes?”

Fingon blinks. “Yes. I did not wish them to ruin the surprise.”

Maedhros turns his face away. He cannot look at his husband as he says this next. “I thought,” he mumbles, “I thought...I thought the Enemy had come, and turned them against me. I thought it was—I thought it was _him_ who awaited me in my chambers, come to chain me and drag me back _there_. I thought—”

“Oh, Russo!” Fingon cries out, drawing him close once more and sending him waves of comfort through their bond, his fëa caressing Maedhros’ spirit. “Oh, dearest; oh, my love... _no_ , I...I should have realized.” He kisses his forehead, his nose, his lips. “I should have known. Of course you—you need control, and I took that from you.”

Maedhros raises his hand to Fingon’s lips, silencing him. “I...would give myself to you,” he whispers. “I would let you take control of me, lift my burdens from my shoulders, lose myself in you. But...I want to be able to—to make that choice myself, not have it...made for me.”

“I promise I will do no such thing again,” Fingon says firmly. “I will write ahead next time, and tell you all I wish you to arrange for my visit, what I desire to feast upon and how I wish the bed to be made, and give you months to prepare for me—”

Maedhros laughs softly. “The surprise was not an ill thing, Finno. Only—I would be happier if I discovered your unexpected arrival as soon as it occurred, so that I may rush to your side at once, and trust my staff to take care of the keep.”

“Of course,” Fingon agrees. “Of course, love. Now, an inventory of my desires and expectations sent to you ahead of time will also be quite entertaining, I am certain, but our lives are long, and as I said, I know I will want to surprise you again. The next time I appear in the dead of night to take my place in my husband’s bed, I promise you shall know as soon as it happens. Though—not any sooner!”

Maedhros kisses his chest. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and Fingon smiles.

“Anything for you, sweetest.” He lifts Maedhros’ chin and kisses him softly on his lips. “I want to bring you only joy.”

“You do that, and more,” he rasps, still somewhat awed that a nér like Finno chose to be his. “So much more. I...Finno, if I can bring you half as much happiness as you bring me, it will be more than I could ever dream.”

The golden threads of Fingon’s fëa twine tightly around the copper core of his soul. “Your heart is mine, beloved,” Fingon whispers. “We are bound, forever, as husbands, and I shall never leave you as long as I live. Every beat of your heart is mine, and every smile you give me fills me with delight.”

Maedhros is so overwhelmed with love that tears sting his eyes. He takes a shaky breath, wordlessly sharing all his love with his husband—and then to break the tension of the moment, he jokes, “Speaking of filling you with delight...”

Fingon snorts, his lips twitching. “Ah, yes. That _was_ extraordinary.” He lifts an eyebrow. “You fuck me like you were made for it, Russo.”

“A worthy purpose, then,” Maedhros rumbles.

“Indeed!” Fingon gives a dramatic sigh. “Dreams of your thick cock are all that keep me going through the dreariness that is court life...and your tight ass, of course.” He slaps the rump in question lightly and smirks. “I will want some of that in the very near future, my dear husband.”

Maedhros pouts. “And spared you no thought for my pretty face?”

A peal of laughter escapes Fingon’s lips. “I thought that was a given!” He traces a scar across Maedhros’ cheek reverently, and Maedhros shivers. However hideous he finds himself, Fingon loves him and desires him, scars and all. In some way, he understands; the mark where Fingon’s side had been shallowly sliced open by an orc blade not too many years previous is alluring in its own way, and he bends his head now to press a kiss to where it begins just below his husband’s shoulder.

“Ah, but it is not only your face I find beautiful,” Fingon murmurs, tangling his hands in Maedhros’ hair. “To see you so undone with pleasure, glowing from within, my fëa shining within your hröa...there is no lovelier sight!”

“Mm, but there is,” Maedhros says, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Oh?”

He sinks his teeth into Fingon’s shoulder, and his husband moans, hardening beneath him once more. Savage satisfaction rips through him, and he worries further at Fingon’s flesh, only pausing to hiss, “You are a vision, beloved. Naked and glorious, sweatsheen and all, gasping beneath me...”

Fingon whimpers, grinding up against his stomach, and Maedhros continues in a low voice: “You look so good with my cock in you, Finno; you’re so beautiful crying my name. In those moments you are everything—you are my whole world—even as I take you, you consume me, control me, complete me—”

“Russo,” Fingon whines, his desire flooding across their bond.

“It is never enough,” Maedhros whispers, grabbing Fingon’s hand and trailing it down his back, “I will never get enough of you, my husband—and yet, with you it _is_ enough, and all my emptiness is filled.”

He punctuates this statement by placing Fingon’s hand firmly on his ass, and Fingon reflexively curls his fingers into the cleft, brushing lightly against Maedhros’ entrance. Maedhros’ breath catches, his desire now in full force, and he looks up at his husband with a wicked grin.

“Oh, Russo!” Fingon murmurs. “Alas that you are a warrior and not a poet; I could live on your words alone!” He tugs Maedhros further into his lap, their cocks brushing in the same moment Fingon presses a fingertip into him, and Maedhros groans, wanting _more_. “How I love you!”

“Then take me, dearest, make me yours...” Maedhros growls. “My tight ass, as you put it, is yours and ever will be.”

Fingon kisses him sloppily, then pushes him away, his eyes bright. “Alright, then, get the oil, and the ropes too. This time I _do_ want your armor off, _all_ of it; and, if you will permit it, your wrists bound?”

“Anything my prince commands,” Maedhros vows, sinking to one knee beside the bed.

Fingon swats his cheek lightly. “Good. Now hurry; it has been far too long since I fucked you, and I find myself rather impatient!”

**Author's Note:**

> ETA 10/29/20: Now with an [accompanying doodle](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/633351672561795072/annataryx-image-description-pencil-drawing-of) :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you enjoyed!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).


End file.
